


Boglins Made Them Do It

by FrancesHouseman



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Something Made Them Do It, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 19:43:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’d have to... well, piss on you.” Sam feels his own cheeks flame in mortification. Most brothers never have to say things like that to each other.</p><p>You read the tags, right?</p><p>Watersports. Ridiculousness. Not the usual kind of thing I write.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boglins Made Them Do It

**Author's Note:**

> So you read the warning? Watersports. Just checking :)

 

 

They have it cornered, horrid little boglin creature. It’s growling and snarling, gnashing its drooling mouth at Dean’s crotch. Its face is mostly pointy teeth, too many to stay in its obscenely wide mouth. They overlap and stick out at wild jagged angles.

 

Sam has his back but Dean’s in the front. He levels his shotgun at the thing and blasts it with one of the specially made rounds of iron filings. For a moment the metal shards sink into the creature’s flesh, making tiny sizzling holes in its grotesque purple skin, and then it explodes. Where moments before there was a nasty dog-eating boglin, there’s now nothing but a blast radius of green gloop that has splashed back all over Dean’s stomach and crotch. 

 

Dean wrinkles his face in disgust but he doesn’t realise that he needs to get the gloop off of himself until it has soaked through his clothes and he starts to feel the tingling on his skin.

 

“Shit!”

 

“Dean? What are you...?” Dean is stripping off his clothes and Sam doesn’t feel that he is at all prepared for this eventuality.

 

“The stuff Sam, the _gunk_. It burns... itches... have to get it off.” Dean is frantically shedding his underwear now and Sam is frozen in place. “WATER SAM!”

 

Water. Right. Sam gets to the stained porcelain basin and turns the tap. Thankfully there’s still running water, and they both use cupped hands to splash it down Dean’s pinkening skin. Sam tries not to think about seeing this much of Dean exposed. He pretends not to notice Dean’s hardening cock, surely a reaction to the tingling sensation. When Dean is thoroughly soaked he rubs his hands all over his own body in a vigorous and whole-hearted attempt to wash the stuff off. Sam strips off his outer shirt because he needs to do something other than ogling Dean or indulging his urge to help, and hands it over silently. Dean uses it to dry himself and then holds it over his crotch. They don’t look each other in the eye.

 

Sam says, “Um.”

 

“Give me your underwear Sam,” Dean says gruffly to the floor.

 

Sam opens his mouth to say... something. ‘Um,’ again perhaps. But Dean’s right. They can’t go out to the car with Dean naked. Definitely not with Dean naked and aroused, so Sam turns his back, strips off jeans and underwear, pointedly ignores his own cock that has risen to the occasion and puts his jeans back on, turning back and handing Dean the second-hand underwear.

 

Sam drives them back to the bunker with the car heater turned on full. He’s not thinking of his wet shirt clinging to Dean’s smaller torso. He’s definitely not thinking about whether Dean’s still hard in Sam’s still-warm pants. He tries to be subtle when he shifts in the driver’s seat.

 

****

 

“Are you okay?”

 

They didn’t talk when they got back. Dean went straight for the shower, no need to call first turn, and he has been in there ever since. Going on for an hour.

 

There’s no reply but Sam can hear him moving around in there so he’s not too worried. “Dean?”

 

“Can you...? Just a minute.” The water shuts off and Dean’s head emerges around the door, clouds of steam escaping around it.

 

Dean has this look on his face that says he’s not embarrassed, damnit. It’s his don’t-fuck-with-me face, defensive with jutting jaw. Sam is not at all scared of Dean and finds him completely adorable like this but he ducks his head to hide the smile that’s trying to escape because it’s the kind of thing that Dean might actually punch him for, and he’s got an impressive right hook.

 

“It’s still itching,” Dean says. “It’s... there’s something wrong. Can you look it up?”

 

Sam’s ahead of him there. He already has all the files on boglins and other unpleasant fairy creatures stacked on his desk. “Yeah, just give me half an hour okay? Come out here and help.”

 

“I... need to stay in here.” Dean is talking to Sam’s right ear and the stubborn set to his jaw is back.

 

“What? Dean what’s up?”

 

But Dean has closed the door. “Just do it Sam,” he says from the other side. The shower starts up again.

 

****

 

“Dean?” Sam knocks on the bathroom door wondering how the Men of Letters engineered endless hot water in the 1940s.

 

The billowing steam hits Sam and there’s so much of it that he has to wave it away to get a good look at Dean. He is gorgeously pink all over, water droplets clinging to everything, eyelashes, hair and acres of glistening skin. His chest and belly are darker pink, bordering on red, where the gloop got him. So are the high spots on his cheeks. Sam can’t see the full extent of the irritation because there’s a fluffy white towel around Dean’s waist.

 

Dean is holding a second towel. He’s trying for casual but Sam’s not going to miss that it’s positioned carefully over his crotch. Particularly now that he knows what the problem is. Boglin gloop? It’s a fairy aphrodisiac. Fairy Viagra. Apparently it’s so good that there’s even a bit of a boglin-poaching problem around Midsummer’s Eve. He’s not going to say this out loud because today he doesn’t have a death wish.

 

“I know how to get it off.” Sam’s voice is steady despite the hammering of his pulse and his urge to flee. It’s not fair that Dean always gets the credit for being the brave one because Sam deserves a goddamn medal for standing his ground right now. Dean is really really really not going to like this. “You’re not going to like it.”

 

“Just tell me Sam.” Dean’s defensiveness is diminished. If anything, he’s beginning to look rather desperate.

 

Sam swallows his heart back down. “Urine,” he says.

 

Dean puts his free hand over his face and mutters something that Sam doesn’t catch.

 

“What?”

 

“I said,” Dean repeats, freeing his mouth, “I can’t piss.”

 

No. Of course he couldn’t. Dean was probably too hard to think by now, never mind piss. He had probably stripped himself raw over the last two hours, determined to come despite the spell that prevented it, trying to force his body to release by sheer willpower. Sam wasn’t going to be able to piss either.

 

There’s silence and Dean looks stubbornly at the bathmat. Sam understands that he can’t ask, _won’t_ ask, and that he needs Sam to offer.

 

“I can’t just give you a jar of piss.”

 

“What? Why?” Dean is looking at Sam now in surprise. He’d been expecting to make a show of reluctantly accepting, maybe throwing in some macho grumbling, but all he really wants is to be free to come as soon as possible. Really, washing in Sam’s piss sounds like an easy out at this point.

 

“I’d have to... well, piss on you.” Sam feels his own cheeks flame in mortification. Most brothers never have to say things like that to each other. Most brothers don’t secretly think that such an act might be the sexual high-point of their lives either. “It’s the act as much as the substance. Fairy humour.”

 

For a heady moment Sam thinks that Dean might actually be turned on by the idea, but then his face hardens. “No. Just no Sam.”

 

“It will go away on its own but not until Midsummer’s Eve, and... well, it’s November.”

 

Dean slams his free palm against the dripping tiles. It makes a very unsatisfactory shallow slapping noise. “Fucking goddamnit mother-fucking fuck!”

 

“Yeah.”

 

****

 

And that’s how they end up naked, face to face in the shower. Sam has drunk three pints of water and making himself piss is not going to be so much of a challenge anymore. He’s still fighting back his arousal, desperately trying to focus on every gruesome image his overwrought mind can conjure up, pushing down at his rebellious cock that wants to stand up and beg at Dean, Dean who is hard and naked and dripping water and pre-come right in front of him. It’s torture and humiliation and better than any wet dream that Sam could have dreamt up on his own.

 

Dean seems to be doing better. He’s biting his lips and looking defiantly at Sam, which isn’t helping any. There’s nothing to say. He just needs to do it. He just needs to piss all over his brother’s stomach and cock. Christ.

 

They’re held in stasis like that for tense seconds that feel like an eternity. Sam can’t. His body won’t comply. He’s going to be too hard and Dean’s going to get mad and Sam will never ever live it down.

 

“Just fucking do it Sam.” Dean’s voice wobbles and he breaks eye contact in embarrassment.

 

It’s just enough distraction for Sam and his muscles finally let go. Piss trickles out at first and then it’s splashing over Dean’s belly. They both make a surprised _Oh_ sound and then Dean’s lowering his body slightly, getting his chest wet.

 

Sam aims lower, pointing his piss at Dean’s cock and for a moment it’s too much and the flow diminishes but Sam reins himself back in, focuses and it starts back up. He has to close his eyes when Dean gets his hands down there and uses them to wash it over his balls and around his thighs.

 

When Dean starts moaning, Sam’s done. There might be more in his bladder but there’s no way he can fight down his arousal with Dean moaning like a porn star right in front of him. He opens his eyes to see that Dean has closed his. Dean has one arm outstretched, leaning on the wall for support. His lips are drawn back, teeth clenched and eyes screwed shut in concentration. Realisation hits Sam. Dean is trying not to come, trying to hold off because Sam is right there, watching, but the curse is gone and his body is finally experiencing all the relief that he’s been trying to find for _hours_ , in one huge surge.

 

Dean loses the battle and it’s far and away the most erotic moment of Sam’s life. He sobs out his release, come spattering onto Sam’s own stomach and cock, rock hard, throbbing in sympathy and aching to be touched. Sam should move away, out of range, but wild horses couldn’t make him. He’s never washing again.

 

They really need to turn on the shower. The piss on the floor might be draining away but it’s still all over Dean, and now Dean’s come is all over them both.

 

Dean considers Sam lazily. There’s a calculating look in his narrowed eyes that makes Sam want to cover himself up in shame; a quirk at the corner of his mouth. “I got slimed by a boglin Sammy,” he says, voice all husky and fucked-out, “What’s your excuse?”

 

 _Please touch me,_ Sam wants to beg. Why isn’t Dean turning on the shower?

 

Dean backs Sam against the cold tiles, one forearm pressed across the top of his chest, pinning him there. “This what you want, Sam?” Dean asks, taking hold of Sam’s cock.

 

Oh dear God. “Nngh,” Sam says. Dean jacks him firm and quick and _perfect_. Sam’s brains have melted from pleasure overload. They’re probably leaking out of his ears.

 

“Did you think I hadn’t noticed?” Dean adds a twist, an extra squeeze in just the right place.

 

“Hmmmh,” Sam’s voice is embarrassingly high, more of a whine than anything. If he tries to speak then Dean might stop and Dean mustn’t be allowed to stop, not now. Not ever.

 

“Did you think I was too far gone Sam? Did you think I hadn’t noticed the way you were looking at me?”

 

Dean presses in with his forearm and tugs harder at Sam’s cock. Sam can’t keep still. He thrusts with his hips and rolls his head against the wall. Dean is killing him with his hand and his voice and his proximity. Dean moves closer, as though he heard Sam’s thoughts, and puts his mouth closer to Sam’s ear.

 

“How long Sammy?” he asks.

 

“Unnnngh,” Sam is so close. He’s going to come, come all over Dean, come all over Dean just like he pissed all over Dean who hasn’t washed yet and...

 

“Wanted to do this for so long, little brother,” Dean says and Sam’s mind blows apart into tiny fragments.

“ _Dean_ ,” he moans, as he spasms against the arm that pins him and paints Dean’s body with his offerings for a second time.

 

****

 

Dean milks him through it and then gently lets him go. Before the awkwardness can take hold irretrievably, Dean starts the shower. They wash themselves quickly and efficiently, a small but careful distance between their bodies. Dean thrusts one of the fluffy white towels at Sam, hitting his chest and forcing out a huff of air, and when Sam complains he just says, “Shut up,” like nothing has happened.

 

There are rules. Just because they indulged in some incestuous watersports it doesn’t mean that they are going to have a chick-flick moment about it. Some things stay the same but other things have definitely changed. Sam knows how it is likely to go. They will fight, play, fight, joke, fight, snark at each other until they snap, and then have mind-blowing and explosive sex. Rinse and repeat. He’s looking forward to it.

 

And he saw Dean smiling when he thought Sam wasn’t looking.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Boglins were rubbery children's toy puppet things in the 80s/90s. You could make the eyes wibble on the big ones with a switch inside. They were cool :)


End file.
